


Undone: Growing Pains

by fivebluesocks



Series: Undone [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dean is Eighteen Years Old, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Series, Sam is Fourteen Years Old, Underage Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Underage Kissing, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fivebluesocks/pseuds/fivebluesocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard living with Sam now, but easier when Sam lets Dean take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone: Growing Pains

Sam doesn't speak to him for two days.

It's like Dean's a ghost haunting Bobby's house. Sam doesn't respond to anything he says, no "yes" or "no," not even a sign that he hears Dean talking. Sam eats alone, making his own breakfast, lunch, and dinner; by the time Dean thinks it's time to eat, he finds Sam's dishes stacked in the drying rack. Sam won't even let him wash his dishes.

Dean tries several times the first day to get Sam to talk to him, but it's n exercise in futility. By the end of the day, he's given up; Sam will talk to him when he's good and ready. He's stubborn that way.

If only he'd choose to be stubborn another way. Sam's anger would be much easier to deal with than this cold - or maybe freezing, or maybe nonexistent - shoulder.

Sam spends most of his time in Bobby's study, with his nose in one of Bobby's big, dusty books, or one of his own used paperbacks. Dean can't help but to stand in the doorway watching him, watching the lines of concentration knit his brow. Watching him turn page after page without ever looking up.

He misses Sam.

However, he knows it's his fault. Sam's not speaking to him for a good reason, right now. This is probably the best outcome that could have arisen from their conversation in the junk yard. He'd told Sam he didn't want him, and that was what he'd needed to do. It's his fault that it all happened in the first place, so it was his fault that he'd had to hurt Sam the way he did.

This is the clean break they need. Now Sam won't look at him the same, his hazel eyes following Dean. Now Sam won't want him anymore, because Dean is an absolute, irredeemable asshole.

It's fine. Without the complications of a twisted, secret incestuous relationship, Sam will be free to date without wondering if Dean's okay with it. He can have normal high school relationships, with all the holding hands and making out and going to dances, and the normal teenage heartbreak, that that entails.

He'll be able to have as normal a life as he can, with the way they live.

 

On the third day of silence, Dean's tired of wandering aimlessly around the house; he's about to crawl out of his skin. He's at turns despondent, angry, and lonely as hell.

"I'm going to town," he tells Sam, jingling the keys of one of Bobby's working junkers. "You want anything?" he asks, without hope of a reply.

Sam does nothing to signify that he hears him.

So Dean sighs quietly and head out.

He goes to Sioux Falls' little mall, walking the wide main corridor that looks like so many malls he's visited in his life. Same benches and plants running through the center, same dirty skylights, same small storefronts.

From a wooden bench beside a display of plants he watches the people go by. Normal people with normal lives, who are here to buy jeans or cd's or lunch, or to hold hands and talk. None of them are here to angst over their abortive sexual relationship with their too young, too naive, fourteen-year-old brother.

The teenage couples always make him stare too long, wishing that for Sammy.

When his stomach starts rumbling, he goes to the little pizza parlor, though he doesn't feel like eating. It's just normal routine to him; if you're hungry, eat while you can, because sometimes life will get in the way and it'll be way too long before you see another meal.

He flirts effusively with the girl behind the counter, just because he can. And because he needs some attention, some small bit of positive human interaction to make him feel like less of a ghost.

She's a little older than him, pretty, with dark hair and darker eyes, and when he gets his slice, she tells him with a promising smile, "I go on break in ten minutes."

So he sits at one of the tiny tables and eats his lunch, then waits for her.

He feels inexplicably guilty when she grabs his hand and leads him to an Employees Only door, one that takes them outside to an empty loading bay.

Her name tag says her name is Maria, but she doesn't ask his name. She just pushes him playfully up against the brick wall and kisses him, her eyes closing and her arms coming up to wrap around his neck.

Dean can only kiss back... but all he's thinking about is kissing Sammy. Wishes it was his little brother here, bony wrists linked behind his neck, flat chest pressed against him instead of Maria's soft breasts, wishes it was Sammy's sweet little mouth clinging to his.

When she pulls away after five minutes, she gives him a confused look, and says nothing when she walks back inside. He squats down against the wall, guilt and sadness and shame getting their claws in him, tearing him up inside.

After a few minutes of mental self-flagellation, Dean pushes up from the concrete. He'd asked for this, after all.

He just wishes that he wasn't in hopeless love with his little brother.

 

Sam's on the phone when Dean walks into the kitchen, his arms laden with grocery bags.

"Yes sir," Sam says, and it's the first time Dean's heard his voice in nearly three days.

"Yes sir," Sam says again, and after a moment, he hangs up the phone.

"Everything okay?" Dean asks.

Sam finally acknowledges him. But "Yeah," is all he says, without looking at Dean.

"I got you some candy bars," Dean says, unloading one of the plastic bags.

Sam just walks out of the room. The candy bars, pale and flimsy peace offering that they are, sit on the kitchen counter for days, untouched.

 

Dean pokes his head into Bobby's study the next day. Sam's at Bobby's desk with a paperback open, and he's taking notes in a spiral notebook.

"What are you reading?" Dean asks. It would be a small miracle if Sam answers, but he's tired of not trying.

Sam stares down at the book for almost a minute, and Dean's about to walk away, but then Sam says, "To Kill a Mockingbird."

"And you're taking notes?"

Sam nods, still looking down at the desk. "Summer reading list. I'm behind."

Dean tries to insert some normalcy into the conversation, to pretend that things are how they always were. "Nerd," he says.

Sam scowls.

It was risky in the first place. Dean holds back a sigh.

"Anyway, I'm going out. You need anything?"

Apparently Sam's done with acknowledging Dean exists. After a long, tense moment, Dean walks away.

 

He goes to the mall again. He needs the company, the normalcy. He chats with the guy at the Sunglass Shack, flips through cd's, wondering what bands Sam likes now, and he asks the cashier what's popular with teenagers, ignoring the fact that he is one. He avoids the pizza place and gets lunch at the Biggerson's at the end of the mall.

It's like he's sleepwalking. Nothing really holds his interest, and his mind keeps going back to Sam.

 

How bad would it be, really, if he liked kissing and touching Sam? How bad would it be if they _could_ kiss?

Bad, Dean knows. Even if it was just kissing. Even if it was.

But he can't stop thinking about it, a quiet little wish that he squashes down every time it rears its head.

 

When he gets home, Sam's sitting on the porch, shoulders slumped, scratching Bobby's dog's ears. For once his face looks miserable, instead of blank like it had been for the last few days.

Watching Sam through the window, Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his face. He owes Sam the truth, at least: that Dean wants him too. But it's too late to tell him. It's too late to take it back, and Dean recognizes that he's done more than turn his brother down; he's probably broken his spirit, made him feel insignificant and unwanted and pathetic.

There's nothing he can do about it now.

 

Later that evening, after Dean's come back from a restless snack run, he's walking down the hall to the bathroom when he hears a whimper from their bedroom.

"Sammy?" he says, poking his head in.

Sam's on his side, legs curled up, rocking back and forth. His shoulders are shaking with quiet sobs.

"Sammy, what's wrong?" Dean asks, all the discomfort of the past days evaporating now that Sam's so obviously hurting.

"I don't know," Sam says, sniffling. "Everything hurts."

Dean reaches for Sam, and Sam lets him turn him onto his back, lets him feel his forehead for fever. Sam's face is the picture of misery.

Dean's at a loss. He feels Sam's cheek with the side of his hand, the places it over Sam's belly.

"No," Sam says, putting his hands over his stomach and trying to curl up into himself again.

"I gotta call Dad," Dean says.

He jogs to the phone, pulls it off its charger, and calls John.

"What's wrong?" John asks as soon as he picks up.

"Something's the matter with Sammy. He's hurting real bad." Dean jogs up the stairs, sits on the edge of Sam's bed.

"Shit," John says. "Does he have a fever?"

"No."

"Is he throwing up?" John asks.

"Are you throwing up?" Dean asks Sam, and he passes the "No" on to his dad. He hears John and Bobby murmuring, then John's back. "He can talk, right? Give him the phone.”

"Yes sir," Dean says. He passes it to Sammy, who takes it with shaking hands.

Sam listens for a minute. "My legs," he says, "The muscles. Really bad. Headache. And my stomach."

There's a pause, and Dean watches Sam bite his lip, watches a tear slide down Sam's cheek.

"No," Sam says, and then, "No, not that either."

Sam curls up on his side again, this time facing Dean. "Okay," he says, then hands Dean back the phone.

"It sounds like growing pains," John says, and his voice is business-like. Dean feels most of his worried tension evaporate. "He'll get over them. Bobby says if they're bad, he needs to massage his legs and stomach. Get some heat pads on them. They're in Bobby's bathroom closet. Give him some Tylenol. And if he can't sleep Bobby says he can have one of his Percodans. But only if he can't sleep," John says, sternly.

"Yes sir," Dean says.

"We've got the job done," John says. "We'll be home tomorrow." And he hangs up without a goodbye.

Dean places the phone on the bedside table, thinks for a moment, then tells Sam, "We've got to massage your legs. I've gotta get you some Tylenol; I'll be right back."

He returns with a heat pad, a glass of water, and a bottle of Tylenol. Sam reaches for the bottle, but Dean won't let him have it. He shakes three tablets into his palm then hands Sam the glass of water.

If Sam's going to let him take care of him, Dean's going to do it all the way.

He plugs the heat pad into the wall. "Here you go," he says, placing it carefully on Sam's stomach.Sam lies there, cradling the heat pad against his stomach, his eyes closed, dark lashes wet.

"Where do your legs hurt?" Dean asks.

"My thighs and calves... everywhere, I guess," Sam says miserably.

"Okay. I'm going to rub them, alright?"

Sam's brow draws down, but after a few seconds he nods his head.

This is almost normal. This is good. This is them being brothers again, the way they're supposed to be.

Kneeling beside the bed, Dean rubs his hands together briskly, then places them atop one of Sam's thighs. He begins massaging carefully. He watches Sam wince, then watches him relax in small increments, so he applies more pressure to Sam's lean thighs.

"This okay?" Dean asks, and Sam nods.

It's so good to be able to help Sam, always has been. Dean's selfish about it now, soaking up every second that Sam allows him to massage his sore muscles.

There's nothing sexual about it, Dean makes sure of that. He runs his hands down Sam's thighs in long sweeps, squeezing gently, and Sam groans in pain and relief. He's taking care of Sammy, doing his job, and Sam's letting himself be taken care of.

He shifts to get his hands on Sam's calf, rubbing it carefully, feeling the muscle loosen as he works it. He rubs the other calf, and Sam's relaxing now, almost boneless on the bedspread.

Sam finally opens his eyes and watches Dean work. They're cloudy and bloodshot, with dark circles making him look exhausted, but they meet Dean's own in flickering glances.

Heartened, Dean works Sam's thighs again, squeezing harder so that Sam groans and pushes into his touch.

"Like that," Sam says.

Dean works him until Sam takes a deep breath and says, "I'm okay, now."

Now that they've gotten through the worst of Sam's pain, he's avoiding Dean's eyes again.

"Good," Dean says, the contentment of helping Sammy dissolving into sadness. "You need anything else?"

Sam shakes his head no, closing his eyes.

Dean raises himself up off the wood floor, takes a long look at his little brother, then leaves him alone.

 

The living room is a desolate and lonely place, especially with Dean's blankets bunched up on the end of the couch where Sammy usually sits. Dean hunches over, his hands on his forehead.

He wants Sam back so badly it's physically painful. He wants Sam as his brother, and he also wants him as the boy who kissed him so sweetly under the overcast August sky less than a week ago, mud on his face and dirt in his hair.

That tiny hope wells up in him and almost chokes him. To kiss Sammy, to hold him close, it sounds like a fantasy. He wonders if there's any chance it could be a reality.

He sits up. There's no point in wondering.

Even if he gets rejected, even if it makes things worse between them for awhile, it's worth it to find out. Besides, if Sam knows that Dean wants to kiss him, it'll at least make him feel better about that, right?

He can only hope so.

His gut roiling, Dean walks up the stairs and into the bedroom. Sam's lying on his side again, his back to the room, the heat pad still pressed against his stomach.

Dean eases himself down to sit on the side of the bed. His heart beating loud in his ears, his chest tight and palms damp, he asks without preamble, "Would it be okay if we just kissed?" Dean asks.

Sam stiffens up, and it's a long time before he even moves.

Then he rolls over and looks up at the ceiling, his face troubled. Sam doesn't say anything at first, but he finally brings his red-rimmed eyes up to meet Dean's. They're hurt and hopeful and scared. "I thought you didn't want to," he says softly.

Dean takes a deep breath. "I lied."

For an agonizingly long moment, Sam stares at him, his eyes narrowing in anger. Then they soften, just a little. "Dean... " Sam says, then he shakes his head in a negative.

Dean's heart sinks. He's pushing off the bed when Sam grabs his hand.

"Then tell me the truth," Sam says.

Sitting back down, Dean grips Sam's hand when he moves to pull it away.

"The truth is that I wanted it every time. Wanted you. I was drunk, but that was just an excuse... it only took my walls down enough to let me do what I really wanted."

Sam's eyes lock onto Dean's face, serious and searching.

"Why did you tell me that you didn't want to do it?" he asks.

Dean chooses his words carefully. "I thought that what we were doing was... bad for you. That it would mess you up. I'm still not sure about that. I do know, though, that... that if it makes you happy, it might be worth it."

After a few beats, Sam says, "Tell me what you want."

"I want you to let me kiss you," Dean says. "I want to touch you." Dean's almost exhausted his ability to speak honestly about his feelings, but this is _important_ , so he goes on.

"I want us to be brothers again, and I want us to be more than that, too. But if you don't want more, I'd just be happy if you'd forgive me, and talk to me again."

"You say you want to kiss me. What about the other stuff?" Sam asks, his eyes still drilling into Dean.

"I liked the other stuff too, but I'm just... I'm not... I think it's going to take a while for me to be okay with it."

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Okay," he says.

"Okay?" Dean asks, hope blooming in his chest.

"Okay. We can kiss," Sam says. He makes no move to lean towards Dean.

Dean pauses. There's one more thing he needs to say, one more thing he needs to know.

He asks, "You wanted to do it all, didn't you? I didn't force you into anything?"

Sam sighs. "No, you didn't force me. You can be so dumb sometimes."

At that, Dean grins. That's finally Sammy's voice.

He leans down to kiss him.

It's an awkward angle, Dean sitting on the side of the bed and leaning down, with Sam pushing up on his elbow to meet him. Their lips touch, and a pleasant warmth spreads all through Dean's body.

For Dean, kissing can be just as good as sex. It's intimacy, it's closeness, it's honest human contact. People can't lie when they're kissing. Sam certainly can't; he's holding back, keeping his mouth closed and his body pulled away from Dean, as if he's afraid to give himself over fully. Dean doesn't push him. He presses soft kisses to Sam's lips, gently strokes his cheek and the soft hair at his temple.

Sam slowly opens up to him. His lips part, and Dean feels Sam's soft sigh against his own, and Sammy is finally kissing him back.

It feels like it's been years since the time Sam kissed him. It feels like it's been years, and Dean has been missing it so sorely, and Sammy's lips opening up to him is the balm that finally soothes the ache in his heart.

Sam's tongue flicks out, tentative and shy, and Dean licks at hit, chases it back into Sam's mouth. With a soft cry, Sam tugs Dean down closer and wraps his arms around Dean's shoulders.

Then he pulls away.

"Dean, I... " Sam says, his face troubled with what he's trying to get out. He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he wraps his arms around Dean again and kisses him hard, hungry and desperate.

Whatever he was going to say, Dean probably feels it too, because the way he wants Sammy is just pouring out of him, into their kiss, and he's running his hands up and down Sam's body, feeling his tight muscles and narrow ribs through his thin t-shirt.

Sam's eyes are still red, so Dean swipes his thumbs along his lashes, wanting to soothe them. His hair is soft under Dean's hands, thick and baby-fine, and Dean can't get enough of the way it slides between his fingers.

"Come on," Sam says, scooting over on the bed in an invitation for Dean to join him.

Dean crawls in and lets Sam push him onto his back. Sam's back to kissing him, panting and making soft noises through his nose. Slinging his leg over Dean's hip and sprawling out half on top of Dean's chest, Sam sucks Dean's upper lip in between up own.

"Sammy," Dean groans, and he takes Sam's mouth again, spreading his hands over Sam's narrow back and pulling him closer, so that their chests are pressed together.

Sam flexes his leg and moves closer, and Dean can feel the hard heat of his erection against his hip through his jeans. It's more than kissing, but against all hope this is actually _happening_ , so Dean allows it. He slips a hand down to cup the curve of Sam's ass, and Sam moans and thrusts against him.

"I've wanted you for so long," Sam whispers, his eyes closed, cheeks flushed.

"Oh, Sammy," Dean whispers back, and he cups the back of his head and kisses him long and sweet.

Sam's rocking against him, fisting his hand in Dean's t-shirt. Dean encourages it with his hand pressed against Sam's lower back, pulling him closer every time Sam thrusts.

With a soft moan, Sam pulls up to straddle Dean's hips, and Dean grunts at the pressure along his own hard dick. Sam's panting, lips moving in open-mouthed, hungry kisses, and he's pressing and rubbing against Dean, and it's driving Dean crazy. Dean slips his hands down Sam's back and cups his ass.

"Yeah," Sam rasps, and Dean squeezes.

" _God_ , Sam moans, his hips pumping, mouth uncoordinated and wet against Dean's. He's trembling all over. With a loud cry he comes in his shorts, hands and thighs and whole body shaking.

Dean presses kisses to the corner of Sam's jaw, to his cheek, to his throat as he comes down, then he rolls Sam carefully off of him. They exchange gentle kisses, lips used and sore, until Sam lays his head against Dean's shoulder and drapes his arm across Dean's chest.

It's a long time before they speak. Dean ignores his aching dick, ignores the cramp in his arm where Sam's laying on it; it's enough to hold Sam, more than enough, and eventually his problems fade away.

"I'm still mad at you, jerk," Sam says into the long silence.

"Yeah, I know," Dean says, and Sam's lips turn into the smirk when Dean fails to tag his sentence with his usual "bitch."

They're quiet for a few minutes longer, and Dean watches the amber light in the room darken as sunset moves in. He reaches down to squeeze Sam's thigh. "You feel better?" he asks.

He can hear the smile in Sam's voice. "Yeah."

"Did it really hurt that bad?"

Sam watches Dean's hand move over his thigh, then says, "It hurt, but not as bad as it probably seemed. They just... I was so upset. Ever since the other day, I felt like there was something really, horribly wrong with me... and really, I still kind of do?" Sam's voice lilts up at the end of his sentence, almost in a question, and he looks up at Dean, his expression begging Dean to understand him.

Dean nods. Of course he understands. Even though they're cuddled up here on Sam's bed, wrapped around each other after having kissed each other's lips sore, and will probably do some more of it after they've done talking about it - even though he's happy that they're like this, there's still a nagging voice inside him that says what he's doing it wrong.

After looking at him for a few seconds, Sam seems to be satisfied by what he sees. "But I'd rather have you and know it's not really okay. That you want it too, and that kind of _makes_ it okay. Than to think you never wanted me, would never want me, and that I was a freak for feeling that way about you."

Sam sighs, and Dean kisses him in silent apology. When they're done, Sam pulls back, a little breathless.

"Anyway," he says, then he takes a deep breath. "I was just... feeling terrible about everything, about being a freak, about not being able to even look at you anymore, and you were gone and I was lonely. Everything sucked." He furrows his brow.

"Then I started hurting. I was a little sore in the morning, but it got worse all day, and I finally came up here to lay down and I didn't know what was wrong, and it was just too much. So I started crying. And I couldn't stop."

Dean presses his nose to Sam's hair, breathes in.

"Then you came in," Sam says softly.

"Then I came in," Dean agrees, and that sentence is so full of meaning that he can't think of anything else he needs to add.

Sam tilts his face up to Dean's and kisses him, quiet and content.

"I'm glad," he says.

Dean nods, finally out of words, and arms and legs tangled, they share lazy kisses until they fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This may feel like it's the end, but it's not. They're not quite there yet. I should be wrapping it up in the next part, though, and after that I might do a few short one-shots set in this universe.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! :)
> 
> Edit: The link to the next part isn't showing above, so here it is: [Undone: Done](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2637887)


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